


Dumpster Diving

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Ship Clint With Everyone [10]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Deaf Clint Barton, M/M, Never jump in a dumpster, Track Suit Mafia, dumpster bros, there's all kinds of nasty surprises in there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 22:49:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3996034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, and another time, and another time, Clint Barton met Matt Murdock. Or how Team Dumpster was born.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dumpster Diving

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Uuuhshiny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uuuhshiny/gifts).



> Katya asked for some Matt and Clint together in a dumpster. This is the little drabble that my muse produced. I've played with their ages in here.

He almost didn’t see the kid sitting there, quiet and still. A small boy for his age -- maybe nine or ten -- the dark glasses looking out of place in the shadows of the risers. Clint was used to people watching his practice, but he hadn’t seen this kid before. Barry was good about keeping townspeople out of the tent until show time, so the kid had to be related to someone, but he was all alone. As Clint gathered up his arrows and started through the first sequence again, he forgot everything but the pull and draw of the string and the flight of the arrow, dropping into his performance headspace and feeling the rhythm of the act.

 

“Can you teach me to do that?” To his credit, the kid had waited until Clint was done and toweling off before asking. Tilting his head to the left, the kid stayed perfectly still as he waited for an answer.

 

“Takes years of training and some natural talent,” Clint replied, the same way he always did. Lots of people asked; so far, Clint hadn’t met anyone who had the dedication to stick with it.

 

“I can throw a knife!” the kid proclaimed. “Wanna see?”

 

“Sure, kid, go for it.” Clint stepped aside and watched the Clint cautiously find the middle of the ring and slip a knife from his sock. It was one of Bernard’s weighted ones he used in his act; that must be who the kid knew if he had one of those.

 

Balancing the knife in his palm, the kid didn’t look at the target at all, just cocked his head as if listening intently and then threw. It landed just an inch shy of dead center, quivering slightly next to one of Clint’s arrow holes.

 

“Good shot.” Clint was impressed. Hitting that shot took some skill. “But knives are a lot different than bows.”

 

“Oh, I don’t want to learn a bow, I want to learn how to throw while moving. Like the tumbling you did,” the kid said.

 

“Hey, jerkwad!” Barney came through the tent flap, already half drunk at 10 in the morning. “Got a gig tonight. You’re on your own tonight, little bro. Don’t wait up.”

 

“What gig?” Clint asked, worry creeping into his tone. “Is it legal?”

 

“It pays money, that’s all you need to know,” Barney shot back, belligerent and angry. “You’re only eighteen, remember, and you’re not the boss of this operation.”

 

“Come on, Barn. We don’t need money that bad. I’m going to be pulling in bigger paychecks once I headline …” Clint trailed off, the thunderclouds in his brother’s eyes a warning sign. “Fine. Go do your thing. Come back safe.”

 

“Always, little bro. Always do.” Barney cuffed him on the side of the head and left, Clint already forgotten in his dreams of wealth and safety.

 

By the time Clint remembered to look for the kid, he was gone.

* * *

 

Sweat dripped into Clint’s eyes and he wished for the fourth time that he’d brought a bandana. The June sun was relentless, not caring about the workers cleaning the streets and disposing of rubble. Thank God for the bottles of water with Stark logos that were everywhere in ice bins on street corners where volunteers were trying to get the city back in order.

 

“Hey, Frank!” The team leader, a guy named Vinnie from the Bronx whose usual job was with the sanitation department, called to Clint. “Take a lunch break, dude. You’ve been working for five hours straight. That pile aint going nowhere, but you’re heading for the ER if you don’t chill for a bit.”

 

Clint straightened up, his back aching in protest, and started to fire off a smart remark, but another guy, the accountant from Queens who grew up here, stepped in front of him and started filling up the wheelbarrow.

 

“Seriously. You’re bright red in the face and at least need to hydrate,” he said.

 

The white box he picked up at the table held a ham and swiss on rye, a bag of chips and an orange. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the edge of his dirty grey t-shirt and drank almost the whole bottle of water in one go; Sammy, the girl doing lunch duty, passed him a second one.

 

Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t his usual part of town; the ride in from Bed-Stuy was an hour on a good day and right now many of the metro lines were still inoperable. But it was that distance that drew Clint; people here were unlikely to recognize the dirty quiet man who showed up to shovel debris and to make the connection to the shadowy Hawkeye of the Avengers. Each day, he lifted rock until his back ached and his shoulders burned, hoping that he would fall into an exhausted sleep that night, too tired to dream. It wasn’t atonement; there was nothing he could ever do to pay for the lives lost. But it was something to do rather than sit on the couch and remember.

 

“You’re not eating.” The guy sat down next to him, sunglasses on and white cane in his hand, settling his own box of food on the sidewalk beside them. “Is it that bad?”

 

“Nah, just not hungry.” The food tasted like ash in his mouth, like oily smoke and dried blood.

 

“If you don’t eat, you’ll fall over. Vinnie will have to carry you or, worse, give you mouth-to-mouth. Fair warning; the man likes onions on his burgers. Lots of them.” The guy chuckled and deftly opened his box, unwrapping the sandwich and taking a bite. On closer inspection, Clint realized the guy was pretty handsome under the dust and grime; under the simple black sweats and t-shirt were some serious muscles.

 

The obvious question would be how a blind man knew Clint wasn’t eating or that Vinnie wasn’t exactly a handsome guy. But Clint knew all too well exactly how heighten senses could work, so he didn’t go that route. “So, you box? Where’s a good gym around here?”

 

The sandwich paused for a millisecond on it’s way to his mouth then he changed course and put it down. “I use Fogwell’s. Not a fancy place, one of those old fashioned gyms with a ring and set up for boxers. I’ll give you the address if you like.”

 

“Might do that; a good place to go a few rounds isn’t easy to find.” Clint picked up his own sandwich and sniffed it. The bread was fresh and they’d put a spicy mustard packet in the box. Maybe if he slathered it on, he could get a few bites down.

 

“But then you’re not from around here, are you?” The guy replied after he’d chewed another bite. “Hell’s Kitchen’s a small community; I grew up here and plan to work here, so I pretty much know everyone.”

 

Clint gave the guy credit; he was good. "Yeah, well, my neighborhood was spared, so I figured I’d help out here. Know a couple of people who call this place home.”  He put the slice of bread back on and tossed the empty packet into the box. Taking a taste, he chewed thoughtfully and swallowed, a hint of the spice hitting his tongue. “Lawyer, accountant or doctor?”

 

With a chuckle that was more like a snort, the guy introduced himself. “Matt Murdock, Attorney-at-law. Or I will be soon. Got to finish up my internship first. What gave me away? The accent?”

 

“The Columbia class ring,” Clint told him. “And the accent. It’s a mix of Hell’s Kitchen and Uptown. I’m Frank, by the way. Live in Bed-Stuy and work security, mostly bodyguards, that kind of stuff.”

 

“Ah, that explains the good eye,” Matt said. He wiped his hand on his pants and offered it; his grasp was firm when Clint took it. “Nice to meet you … Frank.”

 

“You, too.”

 

Clint didn’t mention the callouses on Matt’s hands. It was really none of his business why an attorney had fingers with old breaks and chipped nails.

* * *

Hell’s Kitchen had burned and Clint had stood on a rooftop, night lit by fire and neon signs, bow at the ready. Explosions had rocked the city, pinpointed on the Russians; Clint had been following their trail for weeks, tracking the thugs back to the bosses. Seemed someone had beaten Clint to the punch. He’d been following the trail for the last two days, not convinced by the media frenzy surrounding the death of police officers and the blame being thrown around. Now he stood in the same place, the ruins of the buildings in his view, and thought he was beginning to understand.

 

Whirling around, arrow notched, he sighted on the figure in the black mask.

 

“The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.” Clint’s aim didn’t waver. “Been a busy week for you.”

 

“I didn’t do it.” His voice was laced with exhaustion, his hands trembling even as he took a defensive stance. “I’m trying to stop it all.”

 

Clint had been the man in with the cloth wrapped around his head at one time. Hells bells, he still was, just with better equipment and some back up. He thought he was a good judge of character and this guy? He was a vendetta walking around with specialized training.

 

“Well, someone wants the Kitchen to implode.” Clint lowered his bow. After everything, the destruction from the Chitauri, the people of this part of the city kept taking hits. And nobody who could help seemed to care.

 

“I know who and he’s going done.”  Pain was written in each one of his movements, but the guy didn’t falter. “You’re Hawkeye. An Avenger.”

 

Unsaid was the censure; where were the mighty Avengers when people were dying on the streets? When old ladies were killed for staying in their homes? Yeah, Clint felt the sting of losing sight of what mattered. Living in that tower gave Tony and the others skewed views of the world.

 

“Sometimes. Right now, I’m just a guy trying to keep the Russian mob from taking over a building and kicking out the tenants,” he said with a shrug. “I kinda like the place.”

 

For a moment, neither said anything, then the masked figure took a step away. “Well, it’s been nice, but there are people to help.”

 

“You need any help?” Clint offered. He wasn’t sure who was more surprised by the offer: the guy or Clint himself. “I mean, I’m here, shined up the pointed ends of the arrows, and I’m all dressed up. Might as well.”

 

That got him a smile, the strong jaw line covered in a layer of black scruff softening slightly as full lips curved up. “True, that’s a lot of effort with no pay off. But thanks, no thanks. I’ve got tonight under control. Now tomorrow….”

 

“Got a phone?” Clint asked. The guy tossed him a burner phone; with a few finger swipes, Clint got to the contact information -- there were only three numbers and no names -- and added his own with just the letter H before he tossed it back. “In case you need another set of eyes sometime.”

 

The guy laughed, his nose crinkling. “Yeah, I might be able to use another set on occasion.”

 

Clint let him go, watching as he somersaulted over the gap between this building and the next. There was so much more to the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, Clint thought, than anybody knew.

* * *

 

Not only did this look bad, it smelled exceptionally bad. A glob of lo mein noodles clung to the side of Clint’s left forearm, pear peelings between his right fingers and a box of half-rotten cabbage was under his ass. Using a dumpster to break his fall was always a crap shoot -- pick one with construction debris and he could end up a sharp stick through his chest -- so Clint had learned, despite the odors, a restaurant compost bin was the usually the softest landing.

 

His ribs hurt. His left knee and his left shoulder and the side of his head and his left hip. He’d hit that brick wall hard when the doombot had backhanded him. Nothing broken -- he moved and flexed each part, but getting out of here was going to be fun. Tapping his hearing aids, Clint was glad to find one still working.

 

“I’d watch your right shoulder. Lam’s is known for its peking duck; blood is almost impossible to get out of fabric.” Daredevil, that’s what he called himself now, looked down over the edge of the green metal dumpster. Clint twisted his head to hear better, smearing something with sticky sauce on his cheek for his effort. “There’s a mattress factory two buildings over; they have a big bin where they dump the extra pieces of foam and covering. Best place to land in Hell’s Kitchen. Trust me; I’m a garbage connoisseur.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind next time,” Clint told him. He gingerly pushed himself up, lifting from the waist, favoring his right side. Once he stood, his boots sank into the steamy organic filth. Bow in his left hand, he jumped out, landing as lightly as possible when his ankle threatened to give out. The guy in red said something Clint didn’t catch quick enough.

 

“Now maybe you can tell me what that thing is and why it’s blowing up my city?” Daredevil repeated slowly, nudging Clint’s shoulder with his hand and pointing.

 

A bright light exploded above them, the doombot hovering silently four floors above, searching the area. Clint started and then jumped into the nearest shadow. The red suited man, however, stayed where he was; Clint grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him out of the way before the white circle swept their way.  But it was too late; the robot had seen them. It landed with a metal clank on the asphalt, weapons powered up and ready to go.

 

By the time, Clint notched an EMP arrow, Daredevil was swinging up and around, using the doombots arm like a jungle gym to land on its rotating head. Clint’s arrow twanged on the the metal chest about the same time two bo staffs severed mechanical connections, spewing fluid on the street. The EMP sent sparks along the chassis; Daredevil flipped off and landed on the street as the doombot toppled over.

 

“You’re blind.” Clint reassessed the man, the red hood that covered his eyes.

 

“You’re deaf and not Frank,” he came back, a smile curling the edges of his lips.

 

“Clint.” He offered his hand.

 

“Matt.”  Without hesitation, Matt Murdock shook it.

 

Two more doombots swooped in from the end of the alley.

 

“Can I buy you a beer later?” Clint asked as they got into position.

 

“After you shower,” Matt replied, leaping into action.

* * *

 

“Dude. You cannot seriously expect me to pay all that?” Clint bitched.

 

“You insisted on buying Boardwalk and bankrupting yourself. Matt smiled smugly as he watched Clint flip over the last of his properties to mortgage

 

“Hey, I warned you not to play with him.” Foggy sat another beer down on the table next to Clint. “Man’s a shark when it comes to board games. And don’t ever, ever play five card stud with him.”

 

Matt shrugged. “Had to pay my way through college somehow.”

 

“Bet I can beat you at darts,” Clint handed over all his property cards except for the mortgaged Boardwalk.

 

Foggy laughed. “Beating a blind guy at darts? Smooth, Barton. Real smooth. Now me, on the other hand ...”

 

Thing was, Clint was pretty sure that Matt could give him a run for his money. He’d seen him handle knives.

 

“You’re good?” Clint asked, passing the dice back to Matt.  

 

“No.” Matt said.

 

“What? I’m just asking,” Clint replied.

 

“You can’t hustle my friend,” Matt told him.

 

“Aw, you’re no fun. I won’t take him for much.” Clint winked at Foggy. “It’d just be a friendly game.”

 

“Do you want to concede now or shall I keep grinding you into the ground in our friendly game?” Matt asked with a grin.

 

“Shut up. You cheated. Somehow. Nobody can be that lucky,” Clint groused, packing up his few remaining cards.

 

“Seriously, Matt, you know I’m decent at darts,” Foggy complained.

 

“Trust me. You are not in Clint’s league,” Matt replied.

* * *

 

“Lucky, get down.” Clint tried to get the gangly dog under control as he jumped up, nearly knocking Foggy Nelson over as he came into Clint’s apartment. “I’m sorry. He thinks everyone loves him and has eternal hope they bring pizza.”

 

“Dude, no, I love dogs.” Foggy bent over, his hair falling free of the band that tied it at his nape, and ruffled the fur behind Lucky’s ears. “Who’s a good boy? You are. Yes, you are.”

 

“Don’t stroke his ego,” Matt said, pushing past Foggy after he shut the door behind the strawberry blonde who followed him in. “The mutt already thinks he owns the place.” Lucky turned his head at the sound of the familiar voice, and his tongue lolled out as he left Foggy to dash at Matt.

 

“Mr. Barton, I’m Karen Page.” The woman held out her right hand, switching her briefcase to the left. “Nice to finally meet you; Matt has told us practically nothing about his mysterious friend.”

 

“I’m afraid that’s my fault,” Clint told her. “I’m pretty big on privacy.”

 

“Um, guys,” Foggy broke in. “Is that Steve Rogers in the kitchen?”

 

“Hey,” Steve said as Foggy began to stutter, his eyes wide with something akin to awe. “Thanks for coming. We’re trying to keep this as low key as possible; Clint assures me you will be circumspect and also open minded.”

 

“Whatever we can do to help.” Matt was cool as always.  Steve met Matt when Clint had been called away for Avenger business; they’d been watching “Through the Wormhole,” Clint’s latest obsession. He liked to laugh when the scientist got it wrong. “You said you needed some legal advice?”

 

“Actually, I’m the one who needs a lawyer.” Bucky walked down the stairs from the bedroom, his long hair pulled back in a ponytail and his arm covered with a hoodie. “Or so these two tell me. Personally, I’m inclined to not fight it, but they think we need to make a stand for all veterans.”

 

“All we want is for Bucky to get what was promised to him. A pension, health coverage, back salary. He was a prisoner of war and the government can’t treat him this way,” Steve argued.

 

Before Steve could get warmed up to his favorite subject, Clint interjected. “If the military brass have their way, they’ll shuttle him off to some facility and take him apart piece by piece. James Buchanan Barnes is a damn war hero, not technology to be bought and sold.”

 

“Wow. Okay.” Foggy snapped out of his hero worship funk, and walked over to the counter, putting his briefcase down. “That’s a tall order; what exactly do you want to do? Sue the US government?”

 

“We want to go as public as possible, let people know what they’re trying to do,” Steve said. “Make it impossible for Bucky to just ‘disappear’ without people noticing.”

 

“That means everything will be far game.” Matt made his way over to the ratty sofa and sat down. “You ready for your past to be on the 24 hour news channels?”

 

“No,” Bucky replied. “But I’d rather that than being sliced and diced again.”

 

“Why us?” Foggy asked. “You’ve got Tony Stark and his high powered attorneys just a phone call away.”

 

“Two up and coming crack lawyers who gave up the corner office to help the poor in Hell’s Kitchen? Who understand what it’s like to be from New York?” Clint laughed, nudged Matt’s knee and sat down next to him. Lucky jumped up and sprawled across both of their laps. Matt scratching under Lucky’s chin. “Last thing Barnes needs is a slick corporate lawyer. He’s just a kid from Brooklyn who fought for his country and had a series of bad breaks.”

 

“That’s putting it mildly,” Bucky said with a half-laugh. “Look, you going to help me or not?”

 

“Of course we are.” Foggy nodded decisively. “You’re Clint’s friend.”

 

Matt gave one of those little lopsided grins that meant he was happy and bumped Clint’s knee. “You’ve been nothing but trouble since the day we met,” he said.

 

“And you love every minute of it,” Clint shot back.

* * *

 

“Well, you were right. It’s a softer landing,” Clint mumbled, his mouth pressed against Matt’s underarm. He tried to pry his hand out from under Matt’s thigh, but their combined weight had it trapped along with his bow.

 

“Speak for yourself. I’ve got an elbow in my ribs and two hundred pounds cutting off my ability to breathe,” Matt complained.

 

They twisted, trying to untangle themselves. Clint took an elbow to the head as Matt tried to roll left and he went right, one hearing aid popping out and tumbling down into the foam rubber pieces.

 

“Damn it,” he cursed. “Okay this isn’t working. You stay still and let me …”

 

He got both arms free and rolled his hips, digging into the yellow bits to look with his fingers. Flesh colored plastic was impossible to see among in the wan light of the street lamp. Wiggling to get a better reach, he ended up pressing tighter against Matt, their bodies lining up.

 

“Unf.” Matt grunted, more of an exhale than a noise. Clint turned his head and his lips brushed Matt’s neck.

 

“Sorry. Almost have it, just need to …”

 

“I can get it,” Matt said. He tilted slightly, his hand brushed along Clint’s arm then dove into the mess. “It vibrates.”

 

For the first time, Clint realized that something hard was pressing against his thigh and it wasn’t one of Matt’s bo staffs. When Matt’s hand came up with the plastic earpiece, Clint popped it back in but didn’t move, keeping them right where they were.

 

“Since when?” he asked.

 

Matt sighed. “It’s just been awhile. That’s all. Doesn’t matter.”

 

“But if I wanted it to?”

 

“It’s a bad idea.”

 

“Yeah, I’m full of those. Maybe after we get out of this we could …”

 

Matt put a finger on Clint’s lips, silencing him and listening intently. After a second, Clint could hear it, the scuff of feet on the pavement.

 

“I tell you, they went over the side of the roof, bro. Nobody survive that fall, bro,” a heavily accented voice said.  

 

“Boss said search everywhere,” a second voice growled. “We search everywhere.”

 

“No more garbage for me,” number one complained. “Had to dry clean my suit to get the smell out last time.”

 

Matt tapped on the back of Clint’s hand a ready signal. Closing his palm around Matt’s hand, Clint shook it three times. Simple and succinct. On the count of three, go.

 

One tap.

 

“You’ll do your effin’ job or I’ll cap you myself. Check that one; I’ll get this door.”

 

Two taps.

 

Footsteps drew nearer; Clint tensed and felt Matt do the same. Matt signaled right and Clint left.

 

“I’m going to quit this job …”

 

Three taps.

 

Clint sprang up, drawing and notching an arrow as he twisted around. The first one drove the skinny guy in a rust colored tracksuit back; the second knocked him to the ground. Two more arrows for the older overweight man across the alley, pinning him to the wall.

 

“Now, how about you tell us where to find your boss?” Clint asked the two crying men.

* * *

 

“No wonder no one ever stays over; that damn billboard is as bright as Christmas out there.”  

Clint rolled over, turning his back to the window.  

 

“Doesn’t bother me.” Matt smiled. “Did you know you snore when you sleep on your back?”

 

“I do not.” He elbowed Matt in the ribs. “You’re a cover hog.”

 

“Only because you roll up in them,” Matt countered.  “And your feet are as cold as ice.”

 

“The better to use you to warm them with, my dear.” Clint snuggled up and put the souls of his feet on Matt’s calves. “What ungodly time do you have to get up in the morning?”

 

“I’m due in court at 8 a.m., but I need to go over the questions with the witness before.” Matt ran a hand down Clint’s side. “Alarm is set for 5:30 a.m.”

 

“Well, then, since I can’t sleep …” Clint dropped a kiss to the back of Matt’s neck. “It’s not like you aren’t used to going all night.”

 

“I am younger than you, remember?” Matt answered.

 

“Experience, dude. There’s something to be said for experience.”

 

 

 


End file.
